Unworthy
by oldstuff
Summary: Joren knew they were weak. He knew they were unworthy. He expected triumph to reign first in his Ordeal. He didn’t expect death. (PG-13 for language)


**Unworthy**

**By: Gwyn**

**Summary:** Joren knew they were weak. He knew they were unworthy. He expected triumph to reign first in his Ordeal. He didn't expect death.

**In response to Challenge 2 at the Dancing Dove's Seanfhocal Circle. I'm on a roll, aren't I? (889 words. I know, I went 89 over, but I snipped it as much as I could.)**

Joren strolled in.

He had watched the ashen faces of those before him with mockery and scorn. They were weak, unworthy, worthless. He expected to come out and show them how a real man would face the Ordeal, not how a trembling infant would face it.

The door hissed shut, leaving him alone in the circular stone room.

He sneered. This was the force that had left knight gibbering with fear? Blasé, he leaned against the wall.

The wall vanished. He fell into darkness.

_The darkness stifled his screams. He fell with a heavy crack, his head hitting a cobbled road. Dimly he recognized the road—some wench had lived here, that he had tumbled years before. The event he remembered vividly—her warm flesh made hot by the sweat, the very air they breathed permeated by his groans and her screams, her beautiful hair matted and tangled. It had been merciful to kill her—but he hadn't. He had left her to die alone, slowly, in agony._

_A dark form stood before him. The outlines were hazy—he could only sense that it was angry before it advanced upon him. Pain seared into his legs, his arms, his scalp, bruises flowering like heather on his body. Several minutes, several hours, time was meaningless when faced by the beating he was receiving. But it ended, leaving him gasping on the cobblestones. _

_Clenching his teeth against the pain, Joren staggered up. Someone was laughing at him now, a sinister chuckle that reverberated through the vacant streets. _

"_Is this it_?" _Joren shouted mentally. "Is this your mighty power? Give me a real_ _fight, not a phantom of yours, and I'll show you! You're only a room, damn you!"_

Very well, _came an ominous whisper, a murmur that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once._ Very well.

_The cobblestone road split open—he tumbled down through the wide crevasse, choking back a scream as he plummeted downwards._

_He hit hard-packed earth with a heavy thump. Stifling a groan, he stood up. The surroundings were familiar—he was twelve years old again, standing in the abandoned practice courts. It was a beautiful spring day; it should not have been as quiet as it was now, the air thick with expectation. _

_How had he not noticed the tall figure? A page, dressed in practice clothes, turned to face him. Hazel eyes watched him levelly, with a gaze as impassive and calm as stone. _

Her.

_She remained silent, watching him coolly, a practice staff in her hands. He felt the usual rage upon seeing her, a jumped-up merchant's bitch. The fight had started here, years and years ago; the fight that had never truly ended. _

_A practice staff lay on the floor—he picked it up and struck out at her—she blocked it easily, the loud knock of wood breaking the surrounding spell of silence. He struck out again—her staff met his easily._

_He went into a frenzy of hitting, putting force behind each blow, intent only on hurting her. Each of his blows was met soundly with her staff—he picked up speed, attacking with more swiftness, furious as his blows were parried by her with lightning-fast precision and ease. _

_Why wasn't she attacking? She was only parrying, not actually striking him._

"_Fight, damn you!" he cried aloud, uncaring of the rule he was breaking. "Fight me, you bitch!"_

_She glanced up, and smiled._

_The smile should have infuriated him, but it chilled him to the bone._

_The smile vanished, and suddenly she was attacking him. He had never faced such an attack—it was vicious and brutal, and left him gasping with the force of it. Suddenly, the iron-hard staff hit flesh, hard enough to draw blood. She bore down, ramming him hard in the stomach, the staff hitting soft flesh and drawing a scream. He was screaming, begging her to stop, but she wasn't finished. Her staff whirled down and met his skull with a crack._

_Darkness. He wondered if he was dead._

"_I'm not going to kill you, Joren," she whispered. Her voice was everywhere. "Not me."_

_He found himself outside, cold and shivering. Opening his eyes, he found himself teetering on the edge of the observation room on top of Balor's Needle. He froze as vertigo took over, feeling himself sway. He fell back on top of sacks with a sigh of relief. It was almost over._

_Behind him were women. He recognized many as wenches he had tumbled, raped, left to die on cold streets when he had taken his fill. The Lump was there too, and she was triumphantly staring at him. _

"_You," they said as one. He edged back, feeling the rim of the room, the dizzying fall to the bottom._

"_You did this to us," said one girl. Was she from Midwinter's? Or Solstice? He couldn't remember her haunting blue eyes, her pale hair and face._

"_You aren't worthy."_

_They weren't the only ones talking. Voices were coming from everywhere—even the sinister voice that had come from the beginning._

You won't do, said a mask of a face, thin slits of eyes and a mouth.

_He screamed and hurtled himself off the edge. He was dead before he hit the ground._

The doors of the Chamber opened on his ruined corpse.

A.N.: As usual, tell me what you think? I rather like this piece.

Gwyn


End file.
